


Frostbite

by Ashkah



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: EWE: epilogue complaint, M/M, Post War, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashkah/pseuds/Ashkah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is not happy with Headmistress McGonagall's new appointment for the position of Hogwart's Potions Master. Well, okay, the majority of the wizarding world isn't happy with it, but Minerva doesn't much care for what other people think. Neither does Harry Potter, for that matter, who ends being the only one willing to take on the case when the new Professor starts receiving death threats of the most rare kind. Too bad said Potions Professor doesn't seem to think he needs the protection, which only serves to make Harry's job that much harder... among other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frostbite

Harry sat anxiously in the plush maroon chair, waiting for his host to arrive. It had been over seven years since he last set foot in this office -in this building in fact- and he didn’t think he would have ever again. However, here he was, sitting in the same chair he used to during his years of schooling, when he would wait for Headmaster Dumbledore to come in and explain just exactly why he’d been called to the office this time.

Though, despite the similarities that today brought to his mind of times gone past, there were several things now, which were distinctly different from those other times. The headmaster’s office, with all its splendor, no longer sat arranged as he remembered.  The wall of glass objects and other rare trinkets, which Dumbledore had been fond of collecting, no longer sat in the corner of the office. Instead they had been replaced with books and other less breakable objects. This, of course, had largely in part been due to the fact that Dumbledore no longer claimed this room as his own.  That honor had been given to the former Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall once the school had been cleaned up and reopened a year after the war ended.

He had changed, too. Instead of being the nervous little boy who had no knowledge of who he was and what role he would play, Harry now sat confidently, one leg bent over the other and his hands clasped in his lap, silently taking in the bittersweet irony of it all. Time had replaced the clumsy, unsure teen with the graceful, more superior adult. He had allowed his raven hair to grow longer then he kept it during his stay at Hogwarts, not so long that he had to pull it back, but long enough to make the unavoidable messiness of it seem more deliberate. Auror training had trimmed his physique much more evenly than Quidditch could have ever done, allowing him to grow into himself and fill out nicely, or so Hermione and Ginny had stated on multiple occasions.

Two new portraits adorned the walls of the room now as well. The occupants of both were people who Harry held in very high respect, one because he always had, and the other, regardless of how they got on when in the same room together, had earned it. The portrait of Albus Dumbledore sat sleeping in his frame, or so it appeared. Harry knew quite well from experience that paintings could be sneaky like that. The other figure, however, stood wide awake and stared at Harry with the same look of disdain as he had when he were alive. Harry, for his part, knew a distraction when he saw one, and jumped on it. He turned his head and gave his full attention to the portrait of Severus Snape.

“Professor,” the Auror acknowledged, not bothering to hide the half-smirk on his face as he did so. Harry caught the very minute look of shock that Snape had given away before covering it up with his usual expression that made it seem like he felt nothing but disgust for the entire world.

“As I’ve told you numerous times in the past, _Potter_ , that is ‘Headmaster’ to you now.” Snape sniffed after that, as if punctuating his point.

The half-smirk gave way to a full one. And so the game starts. He’d irritated the portrait several times during his final year –the one after the war where Harry actually stayed and completed his NEWTS- with this same argument. He might have gotten bored with the same tactic by the end of the year except that Snape’s portrait took the bait every time. It looked like seven years apart hadn’t changed that at all.

“Funny that, I’m afraid I have no memories of you being my Headmaster, _Professor_.”

The Potion’s Master leaned himself against the frame of his portrait, crossing his arms in a pose that Harry knew to be so familiar in his memories. “I see Auror training hasn’t done anything to dull your sharp tongue, boy. Pity that,” he sneered. “You might have made a half-decent wizard, otherwise. Mind you I said, _half_ -decent.”

A comment like that would have set Harry off in an instant before the war, but now he’d learned how to take them in stride and dish one out just as good if not better. “Such compliments from you. I didn’t know you cared.”

Snape let out what might have been a huff had it been audible before answering, “I don’t.”

Shifting in his chair so that his right elbow leaned against the arm in an attempt to get more comfortable, Harry stared at the portrait of his old Potions teacher as if something had occurred to him and he were trying to weigh the pros and cons of speaking it aloud. “Pity that,” he finally replied, echoing the words of his former teacher from just moments ago. “You might have made a half-decent wizard, otherwise.”

Snape’s sneer returned to an all out frown. He always did hate the taste of his own medicine, Harry noted with satisfaction. Instead of firing back with another remark to continue the game, however, something seemed to catch Snape’s attention outside his frame where Harry couldn’t see. After a moment, he shift from he place on the edge of the portrait and straightened his robes. “As much as I am enjoying your wit-less bantering, Potter,” –he certainly didn’t look like he had been- “it seems that I am needed elsewhere. Do try to keep yourself out of trouble while you are here. I know how particularly hard that can be for ‘The Boy Who Lived’.”

Harry didn’t respond, though it didn’t look as if one was expected. He watched Snape exit from his frame, no doubt headed to his other one that Harry knew hung on the wall in the dungeons, inside the Potions teacher’s chambers.

It was just as well. Walking in to the two of them making snide comments to each other was not how he wanted to start his meeting with the Headmistress.

  
Hearing movement behind him, Harry turned his emerald gaze in time to see the moving, spiral staircase open up and reveal the figure of a tall, regal-looking, older woman. Seven years as Hogwarts’ Headmistress had served Minerva McGonagall well. She looked much more relaxed than he remembered, though he supposed that worrying about the welfare of all those students, day in and day out, would have stressed out anyone. He nodded in greeting as he stood and extended his hand.

"Good Afternoon, Professor McGonagall." She, like her predecessor, preferred the title of Professor over the more formal one of Headmistress.  
  
The woman smiled warmly and took the offered hand in both of her own. "Harry, you know I am no longer your teacher here. I would much rather you referred to me as Minerva." She let go of Harry’s hand then, having shaken it with affection, and rested her hands on his shoulders to have a better look at him. "My you've grown into a fine man, Harry. You're parents would be proud of who you’ve become.”  
  
Her hands stayed for just a second longer before she dropped them and made her way to her desk. Just as well, because the attention was starting to make him a feel a bit awkward. He never did get used to people staring at him, even if the reasons for it had changed throughout the years. Despite, or maybe it was more like because of, the events of the war, he was still somewhat of a private person.  
  
"Please Harry, have a seat. I am sure you are wondering why I asked you to meet me here on such short notice." Her voice and demeanor had gotten quite serious suddenly, and Harry knew that whatever it was, it troubled his company greatly for them to be getting right down to business. “First of all, I do apologize for pulling you away from what I’ve been told was a much deserved holiday. Rest assured that the Ministry has agreed to grant you another two weeks time off after this mess has been settled.”

“I assure you, Professor, it is no trouble at all. I’m glad to help.”

The Headmistress shook her head in disagreement. “Never the less, it does not escape me that I am pulling personal time away from you. Just know that I would not have done so had I not believed it necessary.”

Harry wanted to argue that it wasn’t as much personal leave as it was forced leave. After the HR department had let the Head Auror know that Harry’d hadn’t taken leave once since his enlistment, Harry was told that he wouldn’t be allowed on the field again until he took a one month holiday. Instead, he just nodded his gratitude and allowed Minerva to continue.

Harry watched as she reached into a drawer on her desk and withdrew a small parchment that looked like it had seen much better days. She dropped it on the surfaced quickly, like it would bite her hand if she didn’t, and made no more attempt at touching it. “As an Auror, I am sure you are well aware of the skepticism the Ministry has for the way I choose to run my school.”

Harry snorted in an attempt to hold in a laugh. “I’m afraid the Head of the Department of Magical Education can’t make up his mind. Either he hates you because you don’t run the school enough like Professor Dumbledore, or because you run it too much like him.” Harry had had many arguments with the head of that department, a spry yet stringy little man who reminded him a lot of Percy Weasley. Most of them ended with Harry leaving the room before he started banging his head against a wall in frustration.

McGonagall gave a wry smile and replied, “Yes, well, between the both of us, Dugglebury always was a little on the dim side.”

Harry couldn’t hold the amusement in this time, as was probably the intent. The smile on his face made the wry one on the Professor’s face bloom into a real one before falling back into her more familiar frown. “Anyway, in that regard, I am also sure you are aware of the most recent subject that has gotten the Ministry worried about my leadership of the school.”

Harry had to think on that for a minute. There were several things at present that made the Ministry worry, the current condition of Hogwarts only one of them. He had to run through a small process of elimination to finally come to the answer, and even then, it didn’t make itself known to him until he caught a glance of the empty portrait of Snape out the corner of his eye. “Malfoy,” he nodded in understanding.

Minerva placed her arms on the top of her desk and laced her fingers together. “Yes, it seems as if my most recent staffing acquisition has not sat well with many of those in the Ministry.”

It was true that the Ministry had wanted to make fools of the Malfoy family, use them as an example to all the rest of the Death Eaters and Voldemort supporters of what exactly would happen to them if they refused to cooperate. It had been believed that since the Dark Lord had used Malfoy Manor as a sort of base, it meant that all members of the family were willing in their actions during the war. Unfortunately, the findings of the Wizengamot, coupled with the Harry’s own personal testimonies of Narcissa and Draco’s actions, left it clear that Lucius would be the only member of the family condemned to life in Azkaban, a decision that the Ministry had not been pleased with.

However, if the Headmistress held any doubts about Draco Malfoy’s innocence, he felt certain she would never have allowed the blond back inside the walls of Hogwarts, let alone pay him to be there. “Well, I’m guessing this situation has nothing to do with you questioning the credibility of your staff, Professor, something I believe you are more than capable of handling yourself.”

A small smile flashed across the face of his companion, letting Harry know that she had taken the hidden compliment for what it was, before the more familiar mask of concern returned to the surface. “You are correct, Harry, this doesn’t have anything to do with my staff’s credibility, nor would that situation require the assistance of an Auror. I’m afraid things are a little more serious than that.” McGonagall slid the parchment she had pulled from the desk earlier over toward Harry. “Have you any idea what this is, Harry?”

As Harry looked the parchment over in more detail, he noticed that it held a slight bluish tint, which he hadn’t seen before. Oh, he’d seen blue parchment before, there had been a time when Ron’s sister had been obsessed with colored paper, but this looked like it glowed blue, as if it were fueled by magic. “I don’t think I have. “ He lifted the paper from the desk to get a better look and promptly dropped it. Now he understood why McGonagall hadn’t held on to it longer than she had. It felt like ice!

Nodding, as if she had expected as much, the Headmistress continued. “It is called a Frostbite, and they are extremely rare. I believe even the Ministry only has one example of such on file.”

Harry pulled the sheet closer to him, making sure to cast a non-verbal warming charm on his hand before doing so. “What causes it to glow like this? I’m not sensing any type of charm or hex at work.”

“As far as anyone can tell, they act in a similar way as Howlers do. Howlers are created when the surface anger of the writer mixes with their magic and infuses itself onto the paper as they are writing. They turn red and combust after they are opened, because surface anger is considered heated and will burn itself out after awhile.” McGonagall’s voice had taken on the same tone that it used to when discussing a new topic in Transfiguration.

Harry only half listened to the explanation. He’d learned in Auror Training, quite effectively, how to split his attention in several directions at once. Besides, no disrespect to his former Transfiguration Professor, but he already had an idea of how Howlers worked. Instead he was more interested in what had been written in the letter.

A death threat to be sure, and a rather creative one at that, Harry had to admit. Addressed to the Headmistress, but directed toward the new Potions Professor, which in his mind didn’t make a lick of sense. He didn’t recognize the handwriting either, which had been expected, and the author had taken care to conceal any type of magical signature that may have attached itself to the Frostbite, which meant that they were also some-what intelligent.

“Mr. Potter! Are you listening?”

The use of the title as well as the tone with which it had been delivered in snapped Harry’s attention back to the Headmistress. She had the same stern look on her face as she did whenever she had to discipline students from her own House.

“I apologize, Professor. I figured I should read the letter to get a better idea of what I am up against.”

“What _we_ will be up against. May I remind you that a threat to my staff extends itself as a possible threat to my students as well. I will not tolerate anything that puts the lives of these children at risk. And might I also remind you,” McGonagall added as a lighter note, “that I asked you to call me Minerva.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, finished with examining the parchment, and grinned, resting his hands in his lap. “Yes, you did. And I apologize again, Minerva. Though you should know how awkward I feel saying that after so long.”

Minerva returned a small smile of her own before answering. “It is my hope that you will soon become used to it. But, back to the more important subject at hand. The Ministry believes that three factors are required to be present and stronger than all others in the writer to forge a Frostbite.  Those factors are pure hatred, unwavering contempt, and the means and intent to carry out the threats contained within. Albus, however, stuck to the idea that a fourth element needed to be present, or else most of the Death Eaters, and Voldemort himself, would have been able to create these at will.”

Harry could understand this. As far as he could tell, all Death Eaters, and even the majority of the non Death Eater followers of the Dark Lord, embodied most if not all those factors listed. If the Ministry had been correct, then by that account, Frostbites should have been flying everywhere during the wars, and even for some time after.

“So, based on the contents of this letter, and on what you’ve just told me, we are looking for someone with a pure hatred or vendetta against the Malfoy family, contempt for former Death Eaters and other Dark Lord followers in general, and the means slash intent to carry out the more creative things mentioned on this parchment.” Harry’s brow wrinkled as realization dawned on him. “That pretty much covers most people in the Ministry plus anyone outside the Ministry who may have been directly affected by the actions of a Malfoy family member during the war… including the Black branch of the tree.”

Minerva gave a sympathetic smile in response. “That pretty much sums it up.”

Harry groaned. “Why can’t anything be simple when it involves a Malfoy?” He sighed and shifted in his seat once more.  “Well, the sooner we get started, the better. I’ll take the letter back to my office and see what, if anything, I can get from it to help us identify the sender.”

“Well, actually,” Minerva countered, as she slid the parchment back toward herself, “Kingsley has already agreed to put a team on trying to do just that. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement didn’t have any problems with fulfilling that particular part of the request.”

Harry looked at her quizzically. “If that is so, then why did Kingsley bother to pull me from Holiday for this?”

The Headmistress let out a small huff and pinched her forehead, as if the subject had given her a headache. It probably had. “Unfortunately, the second half of the request was not so easy to manage. Kingsley believes, as do I, unfortunately, that because of the nature of the case, as well as those directly involved, better results would be had of the person appointed is assigned willingly instead of by orders.”

“And what exactly is the other half of the request?”

“That an Auror be stationed inside the walls of Hogwarts as added protection until the situation can be sorted out.”

Harry snorted. Of course. Now it made sense. “And no one wanted to be Malfoy’s personal bodyguard.”

Minerva sat back in her own chair. “In a word, no. Not anyone who wasn’t already on assignment for something else, anyway. And that wasn’t what I meant, regardless. As I stated before, a threat to my staff is a threat to my students, and I would personally feel more comfortable knowing that my students had the best protection possible in case this person decided to actually act on the threats disclosed within.”

He gave her a knowing look. “You sound like you’ve said that one too many times already.”

She gave Harry a wry smile in confirmation. “The Ministry wasn’t the only one I had to convince in regards to having an Auror nearby.”

Harry nodded. Well, that answered his next question, at least. He wondered how much of this Malfoy knew about and was willing to go along with. Surely having to agree to a bodyguard issued by the very people who wanted him to rot in Azkaban next to his father hadn’t held any appeal to him what-so-ever. But if it were purely for the students’ sake…

And of course, the best way to stave off the danger to the students would be to head it off at the center of its focus. In other words, guarding Malfoy. Harry had to say, McGonagall had definitely thought this through. “Well, Malfoy and I don’t have the best history in the world, and I can’t guarantee that if you put us in the same room together that we’ll get on. Merlin knows I still haven’t received a proper thank you from him for my testimony during the trials. However, if you are willing to stake your reputation and the reputation of the school on him, then I can only do whatever I can to help.”

Minerva’s posture visibly relaxed when Harry had accepted her request, even though she hadn’t formally given it yet. Though, if Harry thought about it, he wasn’t being completely altruistic with his acceptance. Holiday really was becoming something of a bore, and this assignment promised, if nothing else, to be interesting.

It also gave him the chance to observe the answer to another question that had been nagging him of late, since he read the article in the _Prophet_ announcing Malfoy’s employment, in fact.

Harry looked forward to finding out.

* * *

Draco Malfoy sat in the cozy armchair, which adorned his chamber’s sitting room, while reading over potions essays his fifth year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had turned in earlier that day.

_Honestly_ , he thought exasperated. Ravenclaws never stuck to the required minimum parchment length assigned and always put in more information than was necessary or asked of in the hopes of gaining extra points. He’d considered it impressive at first, until he realized quite quickly that the information was nothing more than a rehashed paraphrasing of the textbook chapter contents, written in several different ways based on how each individual student felt the information should have been presented. By the time he finished, he always felt as if he’d lost a chunk of his time he would never get back.

The Hufflepuffs, on the other hand, were almost the exact opposite. When they did manage to reach the minimum required length, which was, not so surprisingly, rarely, half of the content would turn out to be utter rubbish. The new Potions Master wondered sometimes if marking them Abysmal wasn’t being too lenient on his part. But, alas, there wasn’t anything worse than Abysmal, something that this latest batch of essays on the properties and effects of wormwood proved he should probably have fixed.

He put it on his mental ‘to do’ list.

After writing the letter P onto the current parchment with red ink, the Slytherin allowed the paper to roll and unceremoniously tossed it on top of the pile of graded essays.

Sighing, Draco removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose to try and stave off a coming headache. They were small wiry things, his glasses. Small and oval-shaped, barely visible on his face unless you were paying attention, and he absolutely bloody hated them. He wouldn’t have them at all, except that his Mother had insisted, after watching him have trouble with one of the tombs at the Manor a couple summers ago. He’d tried blaming the text, but Narcissa would have nothing of it and then promptly refused to speak to him again until he went and had his eyes checked out. As it was, he never wore them outside his personal chambers or the presence of his Mother.

The rustling of fabric alerted the blond to the fact that the portrait next to the entrance of his chambers no longer hung empty on the wall.

_Perfect,_ he mused to himself. _A distraction._

Turning his full attention to the portrait, Draco watched as the new occupant made his way to a chair that looked exactly like the blonde’s own and sat down. “Severus,” he offered in way of a greeting.

“Draco,” the portrait replied in kind.

Silence filled the room as Draco tried to decipher the look that had taken residence upon his Godfather’s face. It resembled irritation and bemusement at the same time, a look he rarely ever saw on Severus’s face and was normally caused by something Draco regretted ever wanting to know. However, curiosity always won out, and this time would be no different.

“Alright, spill it.”

The portrait version of his former Head of House spent a few more seconds of silence before complying with the command. “Your _handler_ has arrived.” The expression never wavered.

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes and got up from his seat to walk over to the miniature bar set underneath Snape’s frame. He reached down to grab a class and a sniffer of Ogden’s he kept for particularly stressful days. “They aren’t my handler, as you put it. They are here for the safety of the students and to reassure the Headmistress that the school is safer for them now then it used to be. I mean really, Hogwarts is only the third most heavily warded building in Britain now, aside from the Ministry itself and Gringotts.”

Now it was Snape’s turn to resist rolling his eyes, except unlike Draco, he didn’t. “Please, you can’t tell me you actually believed the stupid tripe that came from that woman’s mouth.”

Pouring himself a straight shot of firewhiskey, Draco downed it in one gulp and let the slow burn warm his body and relax it. “Of course not. I’m not daft. But the Minstry must have, or else I hardly see why they would have sent anyone at all. Seems like a waste of manpower, time and money to watch over the life of someone they literally campaigned to have thrown in Azkaban, and failed.”

The last part had been said with outward disgust. His memories of the trials and the way the Ministry had treated him and his family were always going to be a bitter subject for Draco. He hated thinking about it at all, and would have stored the memories in a penseive long ago had the one owned by his family not been taken, along with other artifacts both light and dark, during the raids on the Manor after the war. He’d not bothered to go buy a new one yet.

He grabbed the glass and the sniffer and stalked back over to his seat.

“Well, apparently, they didn’t really want to. Minerva had to call in a special favor. She wanted someone she could trust, anyway.”

Draco sneered into his second glass of firewhiskey. He had decided to sip at this one. “Figures. Next, you’ll be telling me she asked for the ginger-haired Weasel’s help.”

“Actually,” came an annoying voice from outside the frame. Draco watched as Phineas Nigellus made his way into the portrait, much to the chargin of his fellow former Headmaster. “Weasley is on assignment with his new partner, what with Potter on holiday and all.”

Draco had to keep from choking on his drink as he snorted into the glass. “Oh right. How could I have possibly forgotten that? The _Prophet_ has only mentioned it about a dozen times in the last couple of weeks.”

Actually, the wizarding newspaper had found it necessary to devote a whole article each day to the things Potter got up to while on his extended holiday from the Aurors. Last Draco knew, Potter had been spending time with his godson Theodore and Draco’s Aunt Andromeda. Not that he was bothering to keep up or anything. Draco had just been bored yesterday and had nothing better to read.

The Potions Master watched as Phineas stood with his arms clasped behind him, rocking on the balls of his feet. The Black family ancestor –and therefore Draco’s ancestor by default- glanced between the other two before allowing a mischievous grin to worm its way onto his face and raising an eyebrow in question toward Snape.  “So I take it that means you haven’t told him yet.”

That insufferable bemused look returned to Snape’s face and Draco felt the bottom drop out of his stomach inexplicably. He rather felt like he was about to hear the one thing he never wanted to be told. “What?”

He already regretted asking.

His godfather nodded to Phineas in acquisition. The old man let out a bark of amusement and practically _bounced_ in place. “It’s Potter!”

“ _Potter?!”_

Draco didn’t bother hiding the shock and surprise that took him at the revelation, which quickly morphed to disgust and dread. Of course. It made perfect sense, actually. There really wasn’t anyone Minerva trusted more, what with Dumbledore gone. He groaned as the headache he’d been trying to stave off earlier came back in full force.

_Bloody Hell_ , he thought to himself. Draco downed the rest of the contents of his glass before lifting the sniffer and pouring another. To hell with the casual drinking. He needed to get pissed. “Fuck me.”

“Well,” Phineas retorted, Draco realizing too late that he’d said that last bit aloud. “If the rumors floating around about Potter have any truth to them, he just might.”

“Get out!” Draco growled as his eyes darkened from grey to charcoal in anger. He took his drink and flung it at the unwanted guest, watching the glass shatter and the whiskey slide its way down to the floor. Phineas squeaked and bolted from the portrait, laughing hysterically as he made his way out of the dungeons. “Wanker.”

His mood for the evening shattered and his glass now laying in pieces on the ground, Draco did away with propriety and took a large swig straight from the sniffer, using the back of his hand as a napkin when some of it missed his mouth.

Snape sniffed haughtily from his chair in the frame, having not missed the fact that Draco had almost ripped his canvas with the broken shards. “Really,” he drawled, unperturbed by Draco’s sudden mood swing. “Do watch where you throw things in the future.”

“Sorry,” Draco mumbled in way of an apology, though they both knew he didn’t mean it.

Draco’d been suspecting some nameless, faceless Auror, who didn’t want to be there, and who held a grudge against him for the sole purpose of his being a Malfoy, regardless of whether his Father had ever done anything directly to a member of their family; someone who wouldn’t think twice about letting a stray hex just ‘accidentally’ slip by him or her and rid the world of a nasty blight. Then the Ministry could chalk it up as an unfortunate accident, and take the file and slap it in the back of the largest cabinet of the darkest part of the Hall of records, never to be bothered with again. He’d prepared for that, actually.

He _hadn’t_ expected the Savior of the whole goddamned bloody Wizarding World to take time out of his bloody perfect life that had been handed to him on a fucking silver platter to help take care of a mess that would most likely result in nothing more than a couple more threats before the perpetrator got bored and moved on to something else. Especially a mess that involved himself.

In truth, he wasn’t ready to face Potter again. He didn’t think he’d ever be ready to, and had banked heavily on the idea that it would never have to happen. Potter had his life, and Draco had his, and Draco would have been more than perfectly content if the two never crossed paths again.

That night, under an alcohol induced haze, Draco dreamt of brooms, fiendfyre, and the pained screams of a fallen comrade for the first time in years.


End file.
